


The Angels of Alkyd Lane

by action_cat



Series: If John Fell Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Arguements, Arguments, Brandy - Freeform, Car Ride, Childhood, Cutting, Driving, Drunkness, Explosions, Fights, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Roses, Scars, clara gets mad at harriet, just some suggested smut, lots of fluff, minimal smut, no actual smut, oh well i suppose rabbit isn't as tasty as duck, otp, roman - Freeform, sherlock has a gun at the table oh nooooo, story time, translations, typical dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a lead to the Watson's home in Chelmsford, John and Sherlock search for the clues that could lead them to Moriarty. During their stay, they meet Mrs. Watson, Harry, and Clara. Deductions are made, and John and Sherlock get a bit drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angels of Alkyd Lane

"John, why don't you ever mention Chelmsford?" Sherlock sat at the wheel, vaguely staring off in the distance. John flinched slightly, then turned to face Sherlock, putting down the book he was reading.

"Why do you ask now? I've known you for three years, and you've never asked once about my childhood except for last week." John re-opened his book.

"Well, yes, but now that we're going to meet your Mother, I feel like I should know." Sherlock gave a fake smile, then looked back at the road. John closed his book again.

"Okay, what's the real reason you want to know?" John grimaced slightly, and put his book down. It seemed like he was ready for something. His hand twitched toward his pocket, and as Sherlock noted,  _John hadn't slept last night._

"Okay, don't you think it'd be a bit unusual if I meet your mother and she asks me about you, to test me to see if I know you, because, because, well, I don't know, because we work together, eat together, we basically live together, and yet  _I don't know a single bloody thing about your childhood."_  

"Fine, you make a point. Be ready for Harry when you get home, she's rubbish when it comes to my friends." John took a breath, while Sherlock smiled internally.  _John says we're friends. And without skipping a_ _beat._

_"_ When I enrolled into the army, after a few years of medical training, I tried to forget about Chelmsford. That meant every family fight, every silent dinner, every jest and mean remark the boys at school would make about my family. I don't deny it, we were a different family. My sister was… extremely rebellious, my dad a drunk, and my mum just trying to keep our life together. It was chaos. 

" Chelmsford was a place holding me down. When the recruiters came, it was my chance to get out. My mother, tried to give us a normal life, so notes were added on lunches, in coat pockets, anything to make life be normal. Harry didn't give a shit. She gave the eye to everyone, 'cept me of course. Everyone was afraid of her, and so I was picked on. But years went by, and no one really cared anymore. But then….stuff happened and I haven't been back in five years. And that's all you're getting out of me, so turn left at the crossroads."

John pointed to the side of the road, and Sherlock turned, driving into a long, winding road, leading up to a group of houses. It was nice, roses trimmed, maple and beech trees everywhere. In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John look at one a smile slightly. He could imagine John sitting up in that tree, every day after the boys followed him home, taunting him until his big brother came over and told them to go- wait, John doesn't have an older brother. Sherlock got confused for a second, but soon after they had a view of the house.

John hadn't exaggerated, the house did seem a bit exotic. The house was very old, all made out of red brick with a tree. They drove along to the driveway , a large V  visible on the door above the knocker. In the driveway, a yellow 1965 Volkswagen bug sat, right next to a regular car. Sherlock stopped the car, and he stepped out for a second. 

From the driveway, you could see three large windows, set far apart as to indicate three separate rooms, but close enough to indicate that the rooms were small. John stepped out, and his eyes flickered to the one closest to the beech tree dominating the house's small figure. The room he glanced at had light blue curtains, and Sherlock thought he saw a microscope in the corner of the windowsill. John began to walk up the path to the house. Sherlock followed behind, turning up his coat collar in the biting wind. If he looked down the road, he would see the words Alkyd Lane on a sign. Sherlock kept moving. John stopped at the door, took a breathe, and knocked. The V was brass, and from the looks of it, mid-eighteenth century. They waited in silence for a few seconds, then the door was flung open revealing someone who could be no other than Harry herself, by the looks of it.

Harriet, standing in the doorway, illuminated by the light of the kitchen that, if you looked underneath her arm you could glimpse, was a very…well, rebellious character. She had curly light brown hair, a round face, a curvy character, and a mischievous smile. Her eyes were green, a startling bright shade.

"John." She nodded at him. 

"Harriet." John nodded back. At the sound of her name, she rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. She turned around, and flounced back into the kitchen. Right before she went in, she turned, grabbed on the the door, and smiled at Sherlock.

"It's nice to see him with an detective for once, instead of the other rubbish he drags in." She flounced inside, making John blush furiously. They followed her inside, seeing another woman. This one, wan't Mrs. Watson either, but must be Clara, judging on the way she looked at Harry. Harry smiled, and rubbed Clara's short brown hair affectionately. Harriet leaned on the counter, one arm on Clara's waist, the other holding a glass of wine. John clenched his jaw when he noticed the wine, but otherwise smiled at Clara and proceeded to take off his coat by the coat hanger. Sherlock stood very still in the middle of the room, uncomfortable, until Harriet smiled and started to check on the oven. 

"Right then, Sherlock. Don't ask me how I know, but let's just say there are few secrets in the Watson family. You and John have to share a room,  not-so-sorry, but we don't have that much space. John, you know where your room is, show him. Dinner's in a few, and scrub your hands good. " Harriet turned to Clara. "Now, missy,  _you_ know what to do. Pop to it!" She made shooing motions with her hands.

"Right. Pleasure, Harry, I'm Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you." Sherlock muttered as he unfroze and grabbed his bag. John once again blushed, and led Sherlock up the stairs at the end of the hallway. There were few pictures of the family, Sherlock noted, but many pictures of birds. John reached the second floor and turned right, down the hall to a wooden door. On the front, someone had written John's name on it in blue crayon. Then, someone had crossed that out and written it again. And again. And again. John turned to Sherlock.

"Okay, I liked blue crayons. Don't be rude about it." He opened the door, revealing a medium bedroom, enough for a king bed, a desk, a bookshelf, three windows, one facing the driveway, one facing on the slanting roof, and one staring out the back. Oh, and a closet. Multiple cardboard boxes littered the floor. The walls were cream, as Sherlock noted. _Plain bedcovers-doesn't like attention_. He strode over to the bookshelf, which contained many old classics, plus countless notebooks.  _Avid Reader. And writer._ John started to unpack. 

"Sherlock, take off your coat." John opened to closet, revealing a wooden dresser. Sherlock shrugged off his overcoat, and hung it up by the door.  _Old scraps of paper-grades? Drawings?_  They unpacked in silence for a few seconds.

"I can't believe Harriet is drinking again. She told me she'd be sober. And in front of Clara, too. It's pitiful." John angrily strode to the door, and slammed it. Sherlock guessed it was the sounds of argument from downstairs.

"Don't mind me, I hate family reunions.  You think this is bad, think about Christmas." John grabbed a lamp from out of a box, and plugged it in next to the nightstand separating the beds. At the same time, he shut the window above it. 

"Mum is trying to air out the room again." He muttered. He glanced at Sherlock, who had been almost silent since the moment they got inside. "So, what is it? Make a deduction about my home, my family." John sat down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock sat down next to him, relaxing a bit. John looked up, and leaned on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. It's just…this place. Brings back bad memories." He sighed, closing his eyes.

"It's okay." Sherlock said comfortingly. "Honestly, your house is extremely similar to mine. But it's nice to get away from Mycroft for a few days, so I won't shoot anything. Promise." 

"Great."

" So Clara and Harry are staying in her room?"

"Yeah. It's a bit smaller, but more lived in since Harry comes here often to see Mum. Mine's just full of dust." John kicked off his shoes, and sat more comfortably on the wall that the bed sat next too. Sherlock followed suit, gazing around. It wasn't hard to imagine John walking around, or sitting on his bed reading a book.  _Two beds. There are previous indentations of two beds in this bedroom. I thought Harry had her own room._ Sherlock voiced his thoughts.

"Why were there two beds? I thought Harry had her own room." Sherlock moved his arm around Johns' shoulder, while John played with his fingers. 

"Well we used to share a room when we were kids. Harry always said it was temporary, so she didn't write her name on my door. Polite of her, now that I think about it." John stopped for a second, confused.

"Her room used to be a study. She'd play in there all the time. Almost every day. Then I left and…Well, I always assumed she stayed in my room, until Dad died and Harry made a fuss about it. " John scratched his head. Sherlocks' mind was racing, exploring all possibilities. Few survived his endless battles of deductions, even those, with holes. _Harry wouldn't_   _ever miss a chance to take claim of something, obviously everything she comes across she feels the need to take over._

" But never mind that. Even when Harriet brought home her first girlfriend, they never met in my room. I was usually alone." John turned to face Sherlock. "Why don't you ever talk about your childhood?"

"I deleted it." Sherlock lied swiftly. Well, it wasn't a really a lie, nothing is truly deleted. And this important childhood was secured safely in his mind palace. Meanwhile, John gaped at him. 

" How can you not remember? You have to. Sherlock, don't bloody lie to me!" And once again, the shouting began. Sherlock sighed. 

" I remember I had a dog named Redbeard, and when he died I found a skull who I'd talk to. I remember that every single night my parents fought like hell, and the only nice person was my neighbor. Every time my parents argued, so almost every night, I'd go to her house and she'd make me and Mycroft dinner, and ruffle my hair, and fuss over Mycroft not doing his homework. She taught me how to shot a rifle, and when the boys teased me at school, she'd go to their mothers and tell them about it. In my childhood, Mrs. Hudson was the closest thing to my mother, and when her husband, a violent, abusive drunk got in trouble, I ensured his death. Sure, my mother dried my tears, and ticked me in, but she never understood me. At least, I thought she never did. But thats family business."

"Oh? Family business is it? I thought I was family! What am I then, Sherlock? A one night stand littering the wastebasket of your relationships?" By now, John had gotten off the bed and stood up, furry radiating off him in waves, even though it wasn't directed at him, Sherlock knew that. " I fucking fell for you! I fell from a building to keep you safe form Moriarty, I dealt with your recklessness, your ignorance, your bossiness because yes, I loved you, and yes, I know that I should have said that more, but since I fell, life has been Chaos! I dream of monsters, Sherlock, monsters with blond hair and pretty faces, telling me to help them and then when I do I'm shot in the ribs and no one can save me! Every night, I die again and again then wake up and see your face, and feel worried all over again! Those weeks I was in hiding I was tortured, Sherlock!" John took off his shirt, revealing numerous scars and bruises that had not yet faded. John grimaced, staring straight into Sherlock's eyes. "THIS IS WHAT I DID FOR YOU!"

Sherlock slowly stood up, rolled up his purple shirt, the same one from Baskerville with that monstrous hound, and showed him his arms. Like a pattern, every inch was scarred with thin, white, raised lines. John slowly gaped at him. But he wasn't done yet.  As they faced each other, Sherlock untucked his shirt, showing scars on his hips and ribs. Each one, was raised and either white or pink, no in between. Some were darker than others, some deeper. Some almost right on the vein. Sherlock looked into John's eyes carefully, and said quietly, "This is what you did to me." 

At that moment Harry burst in, face red, looking fit to yell at John until he turned inside out. But when she saw Sherlock and John standing across from each other, she quietly gaped and walked out quickly, shutting the door. Even so, they could hear snickers coming from downstairs. Sherlock sighed. He pulled his shirt back on again, tucking away the scars.

"I don't know why I showed you that. It just will make you angry later." Sherlock muttered, avoiding John's gaze. Sherlock tried to walk past him, but at the last second, John pulled him into a bone crushing embrace. Sherlock returned it, feeling tears behind his eyes growing at every second. He blinked a bit.

"Don't ever do that. I couldn't take it it you had. I'm sorry, I love you, you annoying oaf. I'm so, so very sorry. " John's eyes were red, and he was blinking a bit too. He pulled on his shirt, and jumper, and together they walked downstairs to dinner.

"Lovely, I was just about to break it up in there." Harriet said jokingly. Sherlock noted, the wine was gone, and Clara looked much happier. Her light brown hair was in a ponytail now, and she smiled a lot more easily now. John and Sherlock sat down, savoring the delightful smells coming from the oven. 

"Hello John. It's good to see you again." Clara had a soft voice, and when she spoke she usually looked down. She came in awkwardly, and gazed at Johns with an expression of…pity? Or perhaps sorrow? It was difficult to tell, but the look was indeed sad. John tightened his mouth, and for a few seconds they stared at each other. Then, John muttered,

"Same." A few moments after that, Harriet called John in to help with the onions. Sherlock rose to help, but Clara sat him down with a look of her bright, green eyes. 

"Mr. Holmes. Yes, I've heard a lot about you." Clara sat down on one of the rickety chairs surrounding the dinner table. Her eyes flickered in the lamplight, miniature flames dancing. She leaned over to him, and said quietly, " There are no secrets in the Watson family."

"Well," Sherlock murmured, "Maybe there are." He leaned forward, staring at her. "Why doesn't John know why Harriet lived in his room, but never called it hers, hmm? There are indeed a lot of secrets in the Watson family, but we Holmes are renowned for our powers of deduction." Clara smirked at him.

"I could ask the same about you. For instance," Clara twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. " Why have you got so many scars on your arms?" Sherlock started to explain, but she shushed him in a very Irene Adler way. " No, I have my own deductions, Mr. Holmes. I know for a fact most of them didn't come from when John left, no, there were other things that you did." She reached across and felt his temple. Sherlock shuddered, cold fingers prying right by his eyes. She smiled. " I felt a dent. I felt a small circular dent, congruent to the barrel of your gun." She held up his rifle tauntingly. Sherlocks' hand flew to his pocket, his mouth open in surprise.

"You pick pocketed me. Give it back." Clara handed it over, smirking. " I can conclude, that for the time John was gone," Sherlock shook his head, silently pleading for her to not continue those words. " That you sat for at least three hours a day with a gun to your head, trying to find reasons about why you should live, and why you should give up." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I must say, it was very good for John that your mind palace gave you more reasons to live than to die."

"You're wrong." Sherlock said sharply. "Some reasons are more important than others. And it was two hours, not three." Clara smiled. 

"No, it was three."

"How can you tell?"

"Your trousers."

"I got these last week."

"Exactly."

Sherlock looked at her, a smile playing at his mouth. " I knew there was a reason Harry liked you."

"Oh, it's more than liking, although I've waited a long time for her." Clara held up her left hand, showing Sherlock a ring. " The Watson children have a very similar preference of lovers, Mr. Holmes." 

"Dinner!" Harry pranced into the kitchen. Her face soured when she saw the gun on the table. "Sherlock, you should know this! No weapons on the table!" When she got angry, a slight accent  became more pronounced. Sherlock rolled his eyes, putting the gun back into his pocket. John followed dutifully behind. Harry set the platter of potatoes and carrots down, a plate of chicken steaming off. Clara got up and retrieved napkins and utensils from a drawer, while Harry got out a gravy boat. Delicious aromas littered the kitchen, and John ran to Mrs. Watsons' room to retrieve her. Clara sat down, a plate of vegetables on the table steaming. Sherlock put his napkin on his lap, and hid his gun in his pocket.

"Brandy, Sherlock? " Harriet offered a bottle. 

"No." John poked his head in and gave Sherlock a look. Sherlock sighed. "Thank you for offering." He said in a bored tone. John smiled, and walked down the hall.

"Well then, I'll just pour a bit for my-" A crash broke Harry's words. Clara dropped her glass, her face white as milk. She walked over to Harry and took the bottle out of her hands, locking it in a shelf above the counter. Harry stood there, dumbfounded. 

"There will be no brandy tonight, dear. Sit down and have some tea." Harriet sat down quietly as Clara stomped around getting tea.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, we don't seem to have any bags. Loose alright?" She turned he gaze on Sherlock, eyes watering, as Harry looked down at her plate.

"Yes, of course." Silence filled the kitchen, save the sound of the tea kettle heating up. Harry stood up. 

"I'll think I'll go help John with mum." She walked out of the kitchen. Clara sighed, leaning on the counter. She wiped her face, sniffing. Sherlock spoke quietly.

"Do you have any family besides the Watsons?" Clara buttoned her cardigan.

"I have a sister. My parents died as a child, and Irene took care of me. I think she lives in London." The teapot started whistling, and Clara turned the heat down. "Peppermint alright?"

"Yes. Is by any way, your last name Adler?" Clara smiled sadly, and gave a watery chuckle.

"My last name is Watson. I got married, and my mother was quite right when she said I would always assume that love was a dangerous disadvantage. I thank Harry for the final proof."

"Oh." 

"But my maiden name was Adler. I would ask how you knew, but knowing your reputation, I shouldn't ask." Sherlock smiled, a real smile, like the one he saves only for John at Clara.

"Smart one, you." John entered the kitchen, being followed by a gray-haired, motherly sort of woman. Sherlock assumed it was Mrs. Watson. Harriet followed behind, eyes a bit red too. She avoided looking at Clara. 

"Hello, Sherlock. It's nice to finally meet my sons' boyfriend after all these years." She held out her hand, smiling. Sherlock took it, smiling as well.  _Hair in bun, no nail polish- was ready to cook dinner. Somber clothes, gray cardigan. Doesn't want attention. Oval shaped lines around eyes, spectacles. Doesn't wear them much. Tight grip._ Mrs Watson chuckled.

"I assume, you just deduced me. Tell me, what was your conclusion?" She stepped over to the kettle, taking it off the flame. " Speak up, now."

Sherlock said, confidently. "You are obviously John's mother." Mrs. Watson laughed. It was a kind laugh, and John helped her sit down, pulling her chair out. 

"Well then, let's eat. Harriet, would you be mother and pour me a cuppa? Translating old Roman gibberish is something one does need strength for." She smiled at Clara, and Clara sat down, on her right. John took the spot on her left, right next to Sherlock. Harriet grumbled again about wanting to be called Harry, but did as her mother asked. Clara and Mrs. Watson started a conversation on how the Roman translations were going, and under the cover of that loud conversation John quietly talked to Sherlock.

"I told you to put the gun in the room." John muttered. Sherlock laughed quietly.

" And I told you that I don't like socks during sex." Sherlock whispered.

"Touché."

Sherlock put his gun away, and inquired to Mrs. Watson about her Roman translations were going. She replied,

"It's going well, dear. I'm in the process of translating an old poem about angels. It's quite interesting, if you'd ever like to read it. I should be done in a few days."

"Lovely." Dinner conversations ranged from the rugby games to how Clara made Yorkshire pudding. All in all, dinner at the Watsons' was a frightening delightful experience. When dinner was done, everyone retired to their rooms, well, after Harriet made John and Sherlock help clean the dishes. By now, she and Clara were talking freely once again, although with a certain  politeness. John started splashing everyone, and by the end, Sherlock was thoroughly soaked. He was, however, smiling, and did indeed believe this was the most fun he had had in a long time. Harry, Clara, and Mrs. Watson were off to a play, and Sherlock and John were home alone.

"Goodnight, everyone!" John called out the door, waving. Even though Clara  previously had hidden the brandy, Mrs. Watson had unlocked it while Harry was in the tub and John and Sherlock were quite drunk by now. Together, they climbed up the stairs, pushed open the door, locked it, and had climbed into the bed. Sherlock started to whisper.

"John, are these walls…can people hear us though these walls?"

"Maybe. I tink they are."

"Think or know?"

"I..know they are. When I was three Harriet, um…explodes a lamp and we di'n't notice until Mum went ou'side and saw that the win'ows were broken."

"Good." Sherlock sat up, pulling John up in suit.

"Sherlock, Sh…Sherlock, w' are y' doin'?" Sherlock had leaned very close to John, staring at him with a drunken smile on his face.

"Something I've wanted to do for a goddamn long time." Sherlock blinked for a long moment, then carefully held John's face with his hands and suddenly, as if magnets, their lips met. It was so gently, so very softly, that  for a second John was confused. Of course, he was a bit drunk. But whenever he had let himself to dream of this moment, it had always been a desperate act, a last resort because they were about to be killed. But this, this was not desperate. It was hungry and desirable, and John kissed back with incredible force. Sherlock smiled, still snogging the hell out of John. He drew back, grinning like a psychopath. Or, as he would insist, a high-functioning sociopath. But it didn't matter now. John grabbed Sherlocks' shirt and pulled it off, Sherlock obliging. Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt, as neither of them had undressed before they came to bed. John laughed, throwing his socks across the room. They smiled at each other, and Johns' hand slider down Sherlocks' back, slowly pulling off his pants. His touch was hesitant, doubtful. Sherlock quietly laughed.

"You can bloody touch me. I don't care, but if you do you should know what will happen." Sherlock murmured, coming closer to John, his own hand gracefully sliding down to Johns' hipbones. John cupped the side of Sherlocks face, as he smiled and leaned in closer. Their lips met once again, and Johns' pants came sliding off first. Then Sherlocks'. They giggled, and Sherlock traced line upon line on John's thigh. John smiled, his hand trailing farther down Sherlock's back stopping right by his hipbones, on a feature he dreamed about. "I have fantasied about that arse for years." Sherlock smirked, then flipped John over, pinning him to the bed. Their breathes were short and fast now.

" I may have to get used to that touch.  Something tells me you're not gonna relinquish it now." Sherlock snorted. John grinned, wider, the elastic stretching. Sherlock had already nibbled at Johns' waistband, it felt right now. It was hard to believe that three or four hours ago they had argued. The moonlight was casting shadows on their scars, making them glow. John clenched his hand, making Sherlock jump a bit. Everything was pure bliss at that moment.

"Are our conversations going to continue with your hand on my arse?" Sherlock asked, brushing his' curls away from his face gently, in a single swoop. They always sprung back again, the back-again curls. John grinned. " If it's a problem, they can always go…somewhere else." Sherlock's eyes widened, but their hands stayed where they were. John pulled Sherlocks' head to his, and their lips met. John moved his other hand up Sherlock's back, right between his shoulder blades. It was pure bliss, kissing, and the aftertaste of brandy. Pure bliss, watching the moonlight scars, pure bliss looking at Sherlock happily, it was all bliss. And soon after, when they were cuddling in each others arms, they realized they were the most relaxed they had been in a long, long time. Sherlock turned to John, smiling under the moonlight sky.

" I think I figured out why we needed to come to here."

"I know. Sherlock, I love you." Sherlock smiled.

"Quite true. And if I should ever have another chance to say it, which I know I will, John Watson, I-" A deafening blast resounded throughout the building. Sherlock and John were both thrust from their bed and tumbled to the floor, thankfully they had put boxers back on. What sounded like an earthquake and  felt like a bomb, made John gasp for air. Sirens sounded everywhere. John gave a weak laugh, and looked for Sherlock. But it was all over, at that moment, because Sherlock Holmes was lying facedown on the floor. 

"Sherlock?" Johns' voice trembled, and he ran over. He turned him over, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, if even. "SHERLOCK!" 

Sherlock slowly opened an eye. He looked at John, and smiled slightly. John held his head, ignoring Sherlock's stitches from the shooter from the store. Sherlock smiled, again and coughed.

"John Watson, I will always love you." Sherlock whispered, his voce cracking. He coughed up blood, and closed his eyes. As though in slow motion, John realized what was happening and ran to the phone. He called the police, while Sherlock lay on the floor, eyes fluttering.

"It's okay, they're coming. Sherlock, their coming, you're going to be okay."

Sherlock closed his eyes, even as he knew a few ribs were broken.  _Stay awake you bastard. Stay awake. AWAKE!_ His eyes flew open, the bluest blue speckled with green and gold. He gasped, and as John held him upright, hallucinations floated everywhere. Sherlock gasped, and what he whispered John remembered, because it was very important.

"Clara Adler knows Moriarty."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I know it's not that dramatic, but a friend asked for fluff and a bit of argument. Yeah, sorry-not-sorry for the ten rose feels, and the cliffhanger. Sorry. This is still part of the AU where John fell instead of Sherlock. So, if you have any ideas, please say below. Thanks!


End file.
